Costumes
by logicallylivid
Summary: How Sherlock and Molly's relationship evolved, told through the five times Sherlock surprised Molly with his costumes and the one time Molly did with hers. Pure Sherlolly fluff. Oneshot.


**[1]**

It was Molly Hooper's- Dr. Molly Hooper's- first day at St. Bart's Hospital. She was finally alone in the morgue, all the briefing, introductions, and instructions were over with.

Molly ran a hand reverently over the shiny, smooth surface of the metal slab she'd soon be practicing her skills on. She was startled from her blissful reverie as the door burst open and a homeless man burst in. Molly screamed shrilly.

"What are you doing," she yelled, a bit hysterical at the old man who had burst in and was peering around the morgue now.

The man seemed satisfied with his search, and straightened up to an impressive height.

"Do calm down Dr. Hooper," he said is a surprisingly deep and cultured voice. He strode elegantly to the lab bench along the side of the room and removed his tattered coat, revealing a crisp burgundy button down underneath. The man was slim and well built. Molly nearly gasped.

He similarly removed the baggy jeans, revealing well-tailored pants atop long legs, and peeled a prosthetic mask off his face, revealing a strong jawline, sharp cheekbones, light eyes that were curiously tilted like a cat's, and a regal nose. His removed his tattered cap revealed a head full of dark curls.

Molly nearly fainted at the sight of this beautiful man in her dreary morgue.

He paced to storage and waited.

"Well?" he stated irritated. "Show me Joseph Franklin."

"Sorry," Molly stuttered, "Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," The man said, with a roguish smile, and Molly was a goner.

**[2]**

It was late at night and Molly was beyond exhausted. It was nearing one o'clock and she was running only on coffee and the sheer determination of getting the last post-mortem done before she left. She'd done a rare seven that day, and was ready to collapse on her bed for the next century or so.

Just as she reached to prod the poor dead man's stomach, the door burst open and in rushed what Molly could only describe as a mobster. He held a rather large gun and wore a track suit and several gold chains. Molly screamed and threw the closest item to her at the man, which happened to be a rather non-threatening empty metal bowl.

It nonetheless smacked him on the forehead and Molly scrambled for her scalpel, which she held like a sword in front of her.

The man lowered his weapon and rubbed his forehead. "Why did you feel the need to maim me, Molly Hooper?"

"Sherlock?" Molly exclaimed. "God, scare the crap out of me much?" Molly sagged against the slab beside her, weak from the adrenaline leaving her system and bright red from the embarrassment at having thrown a metal bowl at_ the_ Sherlock Holmes.

The tall man glared at her, and growled "Just show me all the post-mortem results from today."

The rest of their time in the lab went smoothly that day, except for Sherlock scoffing and saying "I don't need 90-year-old Gladys Smith's results, I'm investigating mob murders." To which Molly snippily replied, "Well you did say all of the ones for today, really you should have been more specific." She firmly blamed the late night for her short response.

It wasn't until Molly was at home and face down in her bed that she realized it had been the first time they had had a conversation without Molly turning into a stuttering mess. She was briefly proud of herself before she fell into a deservedly deep slumber.

**[3]**

It was the afternoon after another too-long night shift, and Molly was sleepily stirring her mug of tea, enjoying her day off.

That was until her phone buzzed with a text message. She unlocked the phone to see the message was from Sherlock, stating that she needed to come in and assist him in the lab, and that everyone else working there was inept or a trained monkey.

If it was anyone else, Molly would have no problem saying no, after the hellish night shift, she was ready for a personal day.

But it wasn't anyone, it was Sherlock, and she couldn't think of a better way to spend her day off than with him. Additionally, these messages always put her in a good mood, and made her feel warm and fuzzy. While it wasn't a declaration of love, Molly felt appreciated and needed, and to be appreciated by the world's only consulting detective was a good feeling indeed.

Molly adjusted the bag on her shoulder and then pulled open the door to the lab. She blinked rapidly at the sight that met her eyes. Phillipa, the usual lab tech was in the corner crying her eyes out, David, the lab assistant was angrily yelling at an old priest, and John, Sherlock's new colleague, was lying on the floor holding his shins.

Everyone turned to her when she entered the lab and Molly turned a bit pink at the attention. Phillipa was the first to acknowledge her, as she tossed out "Oh thank God," and raced out of the lab. David was hot on her heels, throwing a "You're on your own Molly," over his shoulder as he did.

Molly turned to the other individuals in the room. John had hauled himself off the floor, and the old priest, who was of course, Sherlock, was happily seated in front of a microscope.

"Molly I need a fresh liver, from a woman aged 40-45, preferably not an alcoholic."

Molly just shook her head at the absurdity of the man for whom she was willing to do nearly anything, and his tendency to offend everyone around him.

**[4]**

It had been a struggle, but Molly was managing to survive. After helping Sherlock fake his own death, she had seen to it that the man was patched up before he hopped a plane to his next destination, to start his work of taking down Moriarty's criminal network.

Before he had left, Sherlock had crashed with Molly for three days, in which he acted pretty much like Molly's lazy cat Toby. When he departed however, he had done so with a very heartfelt thank you for her help, and Molly had felt like she was floating.

Then came the funeral, and the mourning, and John's insistence that he would be okay, despite the clear evidence that indicated the opposite.

Molly was so conflicted. She had to mourn for Sherlock with the rest of them, despite having the knowledge that he was alive, and would (probably) return to them.

So six months down the road, Molly was at the reception of one of her old friend from med school's wedding at a massive outdoor garden.

She stood in the shade of a tree off to the side. Feeling very much like an outsider, and wondering when her life had gotten to the point where she felt like she didn't at all know the people she once called her best friends.

As she mulled this over, a large hand clamped over her mouth. Molly thrashed about and prepared to use SING just like Sandra Bullock had taught her to put her perpetrator on his ass when the same perp spoke quietly in her ear.

"Molly, it's me, I need your help, please follow me."

The man released her mouth and she turned to look at the tall gardener, who was, of course, the not dead Sherlock Holmes, though he was nearly unrecognizable with long gingery hair and several days' worth of stubble on his face.

Molly nearly punched his lights out right there for scaring her so badly, but it was Sherlock Holmes, so she of course let it go and quietly followed him.

Molly spent the next few weeks being the legs for Sherlock's investigations into Moriarty's contacts who were spread throughout London. Molly was never told what happened to the people she investigated, but she assumed that Sherlock's frankly frightening older brother was responsible for the heightened level of safety London would soon experience.

Molly was once again treated to having two cats in her small flat. She slowly acclimatized herself to Sherlock's habits, all while forming the opinion that John Watson must have the patience of a saint to live with Sherlock for so long.

The man in question would go for days on end without food or sleep when they were neck deep in an investigation. But the minute the call went out to Mycroft that they had gathered enough evidence to implicate another one of Moriarty's contacts, Sherlock would sleep for more hours than he was awake, lounge around her flat in his pyjamas, and eat everything Molly's fridge contained.

It was hard for Molly to be intimidated and awed by Sherlock when he spent a large amount of time curled up on the single seater sofa and yelling at the Downton Abbey characters, Toby the cat happily making a home on his chest.

This however, didn't mean that Molly's affections for the man had been lessened in anyway. To the contrary, his invading of her home had made her adore and appreciate the smart, scattered, beautiful man all the more.

What was strange was that Sherlock seemed to take a liking to Molly as well. It may have been that she kept him fed with only the occasional grumble, or that she had been so instrumental in Sherlock foiling Moriarty's plan and network, or simply because she was just there, letting him be, but Sherlock no longer derided or insulted her, and seemed to make a conscious effort to not make life too hard for her. If she came home late and tired from a long shift or a late information gathering session, Sherlock would have dinner waiting on the table, and sometimes he would even join her, picking her brain on medical knowledge or discussing the glory of the Dowager Countess' sass. He stopped picking apart her room when she was out, and he had stopped rearranging her belongings to suit him better.

These were small steps, but Molly was happy with the fact that he was making an effort.

**[5]**

After nearly a year of this routine, Sherlock and Molly had found great success in dismantling Moriarty's network.

She stood contemplating the contents of 42-year-old Gerry Howel's stomach when the door slammed open and Sherlock and John strolled in, looking as if no time had passed and like Sherlock was not supposed to be dead.

Molly genuinely gasped in surprise at seeing Sherlock and nearly dropped the stomach contents she was poking at. The man she thought hadn't actually left her flat since he showed up a year ago, striding into the morgue, looking dapper as the day he died (a far cry from his uniform of pyjamas he always sported in her flat). His great coat billowed out behind him, and his navy shirt and dark trousers were as crisp as they could be.

Unsure of her role, she exclaimed for John's benefit, "Sherlock! Is that really you? You're alive! But-"

John cut her fake exclamations off, "It's okay Molly, Sherlock told me about your role in his survival."

Molly awkwardly smiled at the blonde man, hoping he wouldn't be too mad at her.

"We were going to get lunch Molly, the case has been wrapped up as Moran has been taken to justice."

Molly caught John looking surprised at Sherlock's uncharacteristic invitation to her. Years ago she would have dropped dead in surprise at Sherlock visiting the morgue just to invite her to lunch, but now it was normal for Molly to dine with Sherlock. Neither of them kept regular eating times (Molly because of the varying shifts of her job) so when Sherlock was eating, he enjoyed joining her for whatever meal she happened to be eating.

"Sure, so they did catch Moran-the-moron?"

Sherlock chuckled, helping Molly into her coat. Molly had gotten very used to the unconsciously gentlemanly side of Sherlock, that he explained had been forced upon him by many nannies.

As Molly followed Sherlock out of the morgue, he turned to John who was standing slack jawed.

"Do keep up John, while it has been a year and a half, I doubt your physique has degraded so much that you're unable to keep up."

John shook his head, and then hurried to keep up with the pair.

_**{1}**_

John stood by Sherlock, who looked more nervous than he had ever seen the man look before. Sherlock ran a hand through his curly hair and demanded of John if he looked alright.

"You look fine," said John with a chuckle, "she'll be marrying you no matter what. If you haven't driven her off with your personality by now I doubt your looks will do it today."

Sherlock glared at his best man, but was prevented from shooting back a sharp remark from the music that started to play.

Sherlock turned his attention to the end of the church as the wedding march started to play. He was peripherally aware that the guests had risen to their feet, but he was taken aback by his beautiful bride. Molly floated down the aisle, and as she raised her eyes to his, Sherlock felt his breathe leave him.

Never in his life had he thought that he, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, would willingly enter into a legal bond with another person, much less the nervous, mousy pathologist he'd known for far too long.

But as he saw Molly floating down the aisle, her form fitting dress captivating his attention as her veil and train trailed behind her, his breath knocked from his body by the sheer love he felt for the lovely woman whose life and home he'd invaded before she'd invaded his heart. He knew irrevocably that he was exactly where he wanted to be.


End file.
